Over my body…

Now what I want to say is that you don’t have to be named after a goddess to start a war of religions. Nor either born of the hands of a great artist. I know it from my own experience. I was no replica of a goddess. Just a bare-bodied bathing beauty. You have to be bare to bathe. I wasn’t a great work of art but fine craftsmanship went into my making. And the craftsman who cast me in metal in a workshop took care to throw a drape across my front. So I fell well within the aesthetics of nudity. Certainly, I was never naked.

Soon after I was cast and ready in a workshop back home in Italy early this century, an order came to ship me all the way to the princely state of Patiala in British India. Maharaja Bhupinder Singh of Patiala, famed for his 365 wives, had me installed in a small water feature in a shaded spot in the Baradari gardens. There I stood pretty as a picture.

No one really disturbed me. Occasionally a Maharani would throw a coy glance my way as she strolled with the Maharaja and ask him, “Is she prettier than me?” The charmer that the Maharaja was would just laugh, jab a finger into the dimple on my bum and say, “She’s cold metal, you’re warm flesh.” I didn’t mind this, really. And when the Maharaja died, I was somewhat neglected. For his son did not have his father’s glad eye.

Then suddenly towards the middle of the century the peace and quiet of Patiala was gone. The year was 1947, I think. Blood stained the streets and screams of women pierced the sky. But no one bothered me. What need did they have of this cold metal woman when warm-blooded ones were being paraded naked and raped in broad daylight. They belonged to another religion they said. The madness went on and then all was quiet with many new faces having come to this city from across the borders of a new country called Pakistan.

Patiala too became a part of independent India. The Maharaja’s gardens were thrown open to the people. They came in hordes to the garden, trampling over the grass, picnicking on stuffed parathas with their familes or playing cards in groups and occasionally stealing glances at me. No one said anything but a brat would cry out, “Wekho! Nangi…” This even while I clutched to my flimsy drape.

But after a few years the lads got bolder. They not only stared at me. But some of them would come and stand next to me and have their pictures clicked. The district magistrate, under whose care I was as state property, did not like this development. And an order was pasted by my side saying that photography with the statue was prohibited. But much else was in store for me. There came these lusty men at dusk, poking at me, fiddling and rubbing their bodies against me. Being a statue, I could not even scream in protest. But a kind gardener reported the matter to the authorities. The authorities were outraged.

They built a little fence around the pond where I stood and put a lock. Another order was pasted there which said: Butt se chhedkhani karna manah hai..bahukam Zila Magistrate ( Teasing of the statue is forbidden by an order of the District Magistrate). Of course, it was not teasing. It was much more and I had to bear it. But with the order I felt safe. But not for long.

Hot winds started blowing through Patiala again. A cow’s tail was found in a temple and young Shiv Sainiks from the Kalibarhi Mandir closeby came one night in anger and climbed over the fence and painted my drape saffron. Some days later the angry boys from the Dukhnivaran Gurdwara climbed over the fence and painted the drape blue.

The authorities stepped in. Some painters were called and my body was painted white, drape pink. lips red and my hair black. I looked quite funny, really. But there I stood without much say in the matter looking more like a painted clown. A couple of years passed, and the boys who had painted my drape blue got bolder still. They were carrying guns and riding motorcycles.

They would stop women in the streets ordering them to wear a uniform of a black salwar-kameez and a saffron dupatta. They could not order me so. For my body all turned and twisted in a bathing pose would just not allow for a salwar-kameez. So one night they came and tied something to me. I did not know what it was until the blast came. I was blown up. No one sheds tears for me as I lie in bits and pieces in a corner of the archives. I was known as Bathing Beauty. But sometimes I wonder who I was… just a woman or a work of art? And what was my religion. You decide. Now that I have told you my tale…